Temozarela/Kebrael
Kebrael, the Lord of Flesh
When Creation was young, the Primordials exercised their creativity and populated it with life to amuse themselves. Kebrael was considered a bit obsessed even by his compatriots. He loved nothing more than to shape, and reshape, and at last render shapeless, that which lives and bears flesh. His hordes of creations were traumatic to look upon, and deadly to fight, in the Primordial War. Since his exile to Malfeas, he has turned his creative fury to breeding warriors to win his lord's freedom. These mad half-alive creatures are like something out of a nightmare, but there is a certain purity and power in their patchwork forms. Kebrael's creations represent the epitome of natural selection and purity of form and mind, if they can truly be said to have minds. They live for their lord's pleasure, and cannot be readily commanded by any but him, being devoid of ears. This, along with inhuman toughness, allows them to survive as they roam the desert of Cecelyne, unharmed by the heat of Ligier, the dryness of Cecelyne, or the scouring ravages of Adorjan. They are most at home in the desert, and will gladly wander there for days on end.
Kebrael himself has little interest in shaping his own form, being both somewhat lazy and titanically arrogant. His form doesn't need much work in any case. When summoned, he assumes the form of a brawny, hairy man with huge, bloodstained wings, curved ebon claws, and blank white eyes, yet a strangely elegant face. His voice can sway the weak-minded, and he is skilled beyond mortal comprehension in the arts of surgery. Blood is his preferred beverage, and he finds its taste sweet beyond measure, but not so sweet as vengeance. He will erupt into berserk rage if he is to see anything he perceives as beautiful damaged in any way. The defilement of beauty is one of the greatest sins in his mind.
Offspring
Bane-guards
The bane-guards are almost physically identical to humans at surface inspection. They are completely uniform in body and mind, no two any different. Even the weapons they bear are borne by sheer coincidence and their lord's fancy. Any identifying markings are not removed, but are ignored nonetheless. They are all seven feet tall, inhumanly brawny, and wrapped in strips of white material like a cross between paper, kidskin, and silk. This material is often stained with their black blood, and serves as bandages for the many wounds they suffer. Bane-guards do not feel pain, do not have any discernible emotions, and do not seem to forget. They have a sense of smell like a wolf's, never tire, do not breath, and cannot speak. Their faces are concealed by smooth white porcelain masks that cannot be shattered by even the mightiest blows from mortal weapons. They will continue to fight even if their ribcages are ripped open, and will not suffer being restrained, doing whatever they must to be free, even tearing their own forearms and shins off when crucified, the one thing they fear above all. They usually fight in groups, but do not use group tactics. They are simply a mass of individuals with a common purpose. They take no orders, not even if magically compelled, unless they are commanded by a servant of Tharalstrazix, human, demon, or Infernal.
Wing-children
The wing-children are Kebrael's twisted attempt at beauty of form. Like the bane-guards, they feel no fear, but love, hatred, and pain are by no means alien sensations. They take the form of red-haired, early adolescent female human children, with their arms replaced by snowy white wings. The upper halves of their faces are concealed by iron masks, and their eyes burn with hellfire. Their mouths are filled with delicate fangs, and they cannot speak except in birdlike caws and croaks. Their feet are tipped in long obsidian talons, and they can heal from wounds supernaturally fast. They are unquestioningly loyal to their lord, and will obey any of his dictates. The song they sing when given any quantity of gold is heartbreakingly sweet and otherworldly, but it pales in comparison to the songs they can produce when fed pure orichalcum. The melodies produced are otherworldly in their beauty, filled with aeons of pain and sorrow and longing to be free. The terrible sadness and awesome madness contained therein has been known to break the hardest hearts and shatter the strongest minds. They cannot abide the gleam of steel or the sound of glass breaking, and can be called into the mortal realm by the wails of a newly orphaned child.
